


Aching for home.

by HandheldAshtray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bickering boys, Cuddling, M/M, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandheldAshtray/pseuds/HandheldAshtray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re drunk when it happens. It’s been a long time coming. Dean’s been slipping, his eyes and hands wandering when they go out, and they haven’t been wandering on Sam. They’ve been touching slender waists in too short dresses when they should have been resting on Sam’s lower back, brushing hair out of faces that aren’t Sam’s. And the ache starts again. It had been dwindling, dissipating over the months they had spent together, holed up in the bunker, however now, watching his brother flirting hopelessly with an unimpressed blonde, Sam decides he’s finally had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aching for home.

Aching for home. 

They’re drunk when it happens. It’s been a long time coming. Dean’s been slipping, his eyes and hands wandering when they go out, and they haven’t been wandering on Sam. They’ve been touching slender waists in too short dresses when they should have been resting on Sam’s lower back, brushing hair out of faces that aren’t Sam’s. And the ache starts again. It had been dwindling, dissipating over the months they had spent together, holed up in the bunker, however now, watching his brother flirting hopelessly with an unimpressed blonde, Sam decides he’s finally had enough. 

Downing the rest of his beer, he stands and walks over to Dean, giving the girls surrounding him a forced smile, before firmly placing his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“I want to go.” The message is clear, his tone is firm and Sam does his best not to shake as Dean turns to look at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Well, hold your horses there Sammy, these pretty little ladies and I, well we were just thinkin’-”

“No.” He cut Dean off, hand still sure on his shoulder and giving the girls another forced, apologetic smile. “We’re going home Dean, I’ve had enough.” 

Dean gives him a look. He raises both brows, tilts his head down a bit and stares at Sam for a long moment before turning his attention back to the women. 

“Sorry girls, we’ll have to rain check on that tequila? Yeah?” He beams at them, shrugging Sammy’s hand off his shoulder as he stands and pulls on his leather jacket. And then pointedly he stoops and presses a single kiss to each girl, controlled and placed firmly on their perfectly powdered cheeks. Picking up his beer, Dean turns back to Sam and puts the glass to his lips, drinking it down and staring at Sam. He places the mug on the table, adjusts his jacket and motions with his hand for Sammy to head on out, “Come on then Samantha, gotta get you you’re beauty sleep, make you grow up big and strong and all that.” 

Sam scowls, he can’t help it. Can’t help but be angry with how charming Dean is, even when he teases. He can’t even bring himself to be fully mad about the girls the second he knows that him and Dean are going to get in the car, together, alone. The night is cold, and Sam can see the breath curling in front of Dean as he walks, can hear the crunch of gravel underfoot as they both make their way to the Impala. Dean unlocks the drivers side, and Sam walks around, waiting until Dean reaches over to flip the lock. There’s a telltale click and Sam opens the door. 

By the time he’s settled in shotgun Dean is already fumbling with the tape player, and Sam is silently wishing they were still in the bar. He was behaving like a kid and Dean didn’t need that. He was a grown ass man, and yet here they were. He also wished, somewhat absently, that Dean would ditch the cassettes and would let him reinstall the iPod dock. There’s a moment of tense silence as Dean switches on the engine and the Impala begins to purr, followed seconds later by the sound of a tape slipping in. Sam watched Dean turn up the volume, and took the hint. Dean didn’t want to talk about it. 

The silence, if it could be called that, was stifling. Sam looked petulantly out of the passenger’s window, not daring to look forward, to even turn his face. He didn’t want to look at Dean, pretty, smiling Dean who he’d dragged away from the place where he’d seemed happiest. He hadn’t seen Dean smile like that in a long time. It was that cheeky, heart melting, panty wetting smile. The cheeky bad boy who was 27, hunting monsters and fucking girls and already had Sam’s heart completely in his hands. Then when he’d turned to Sam in the bar, stoic and stone, Sam knew that is how he’d stay for the rest of the evening. 

The bunker came quickly, but the quiet stretched on, more intense now that the rumbling of the Impala was gone, the blaring beat of some age old rock song had been killed. Dean didn’t get out right away and Sam didn’t move. His breath was catching in his throat, and he could feel his chest tightening already at the thought of going in there and settling down in Dean’s bed. He could barely look at his big brother, let alone sleep next to him, curled up, warm in his arms. Clenching his jaw, Sam finally moved. It was sudden, and he opened up the car door roughly, swinging it open and then quickly making to stand up, wanting to head inside and hit the showers. If he does that then maybe Dean will be asleep by the time he finally gets to the bed, perhaps if he just. The thought is cut short by a firm hand on his wrist, trapping him and pulling him back down into the car.

“Okay Sammy, enough of the silent treatment, what’ve you got a stick up your ass about this time?” The words cut, deeper than Sam thought they would have and he turns his eyes to Dean, face as hard as he can bring himself to make it. 

“Nothing Dean, I just wanted to come back, alright?” He answered with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and feeling himself flood with relief when he felt Dean’s grip on his relaxing. 

“Whatever Sam.” He turns back, stepping out of the car, this time unhindered and slamming the car door shut. He can practically hear Dean’s protests, even though today he doesn’t voice them. Rather than dwell or wait for a fight to be picked, Sam walked down the steps, fishing out his key and opening up the bunker. 

Once inside, Sam ran through the usual steps, ensuring that they hadn’t been broken in to, all the machines were still bleeping, flashing and whirring as he assumed they should be. It’s only then that Sam made his way into the small bathroom and locked the door. It was a relief to be on his own, and an even bigger one to know that Dean’s bed would be empty of anyone else whilst he showered. Shucking his clothes, Sam started the shower and for the millionth time marvelled at the water pressure. He wasn’t sure how they’d managed to master something that most motels didn’t even make an attempt at, way back when; but then he remembered where he was. The water was probably holy to boot, the shower head no doubt pure silver. 

Regardless, it was hot and it rained down hard across his tired shoulders. There was an ache in him, running bone deep that he couldn’t seem to shake. He was tired, too tired, years of hunting and grief finally taking their toll on him. And Dean knew how he felt. Dean knew the burden of the family business and bore it for him, Dean knew how hard it was to be the monsters that baby Djinns where told about at night. Dean understood the weight, but he didn’t understand the loneliness. Not in Sam’s eyes. When Sam was gone he knew Dean buried himself in women, in booze, in anything he could find that wasn’t loss and sorrow. When Dean left, Sam buried himself in anguish, in an old shirt, in books, anger, desperation. 

He shut off the shower with a sudden movement, wiping the thoughts of abandonment firmly from his mind. Dean was here, with him, and the bimbos from the bar where nowhere in sight. He didn’t have to worry, not tonight. Tonight he could climb into bed with Dean, and lie in silent, happy fury, back turned to him and know that Dean was there. And even if it was only for the night, Dean was his. Stepping down out of the shower, Sam grabbed the towel from it’s place upon the rack and scrubbed at his face and neck, then rubbed his hair vigorously. Drying himself down quickly he paused, wiping the steamy mirror down with a damp hand and glaring at his reflection. 

His skin was a litter of scars, there were bags underneath his eyes and the years were evident everywhere he looked. His gait sloped where he favoured his left knee, his nose slightly crooked from a poorly set break. When it was cold, it caused every bone in his body to complain, his joints seized and his muscles to sob beneath layers of scar tissue. Dean knew his body, Dean knew because he shared it. Shared the lifestyle, the pain, the endless list of injuries. Dean knew Sam, but he couldn’t help but think that Dean didn’t know him well enough. Bringing up his towel, he scrubbed once more at his face and rubbed at his hair fruitlessly. It was still wet. It would be wet when his head hit the pillow, and cold whilst he fell asleep, but that was the price he chose to pay. Pulling on the pair of jogging bottoms he had taken off this morning, Sam draped the towel around his shoulders and headed back to Dean’s bedroom. 

The bedside lamp was on, Dean had curled himself towards it, eyes shut but not sleeping. Sam knew this dance well. He rubbed his hair with the towel a final time and then tossed it over the back on the chair that stood, lonely in Dean’s room. It had been Cas' once placed in the hope that he'd watch over Dean even now; more than once he'd watched over them both. Not a word was said as Sam pushed down his sweat pants and pulled back the comforters, settling down onto the mattress that didn’t seem to remember his shape the way it did Dean’s. 

Cool, damp hair clung to his cheek as he kept his back firmly to Dean’s. Once he was still, eyes closed there was a soft click and Sam knew that it was the lamp. Dean shifted, settled and shifted again. He shimmied back, until his back pressed gently to Sam’s in silent comfort. If Sam didn’t know any better he’d say that it was an apology. 

Sleep was hard to come by for both of them, especially like this. Drawn tight on a wire and listening to the even breathing of each other, feigning sleep. Sam is nearly there when Dean moves, shifts and rolls himself over to spoon up against Sam’s back. It’s a comfort, and Sam can’t stop himself from sighing, sagging back against the firm warmth of Dean’s chest. 

“Your hair’s wet.” Came a muffled mumble from behind him, plush, familiar lips pressing gently against his spine, nose pressed to skin.

“’s what happens when you shower.” Sam bites back, stiff as Dean rests a board, familiar palm against his him and tries to pull him in close. Sam doesn’t budge, so instead Dean shifts closer with a huff of laughter, moving his hand from his hip and instead to rest on Sam’s bare chest. 

Dean has underwear on, the soft drag of cotton against Sam’s skin is calming in an odd way. Dean hadn’t expected sex, Dean had let him in on the pretence of wanting him there, and Dean was still more decent than he usually was these nights. 

“I saw you looking.” The words cut like a knife, quick and sharp, stinging the fledgling peace of the bedroom. “Saw you watching me Sammy, with them girls. Thought you might have wanted one of them.” Dean continued, his breath was hot on the damp skin at the nape of Sam's neck and his voice a low, smooth rumble. It vibrated through Sam’s chest, round the room, it cocooned him tighter than any blanket, any bondage. He lay rigid under Dean’s touch, unflinching even though every inch of him wanted to yield to the familiarity, the easy comfort that Dean would provide him. Instead, Sam made a warning noise, voice filled with tension. 

“Dean…” He began, squirming forward a little and away from Dean’s touch only to have the hand on his chest pull him back. Dean had more leverage, despite Sam’s size and they were quickly pressed back together. 

“They thought you wanted them too, yanno?” Dean spoke again, easily as Sam squirmed back against him, uncomfortable and unhappy.

“Yeah, well, sucks to be them.” Sam all but spat, planting a hand firmly on the bed and wrenching himself firmly away from Dean’s grasp. “Sorry I put a damper on your little plans for a gangbang Dean but-“ He was cut off by the sound of laughter, two hands groped for his shoulders and Sam let them. 

“Gang bang? Jesus Sammy, you need to learn to chill out. That what you were staring at all night? Got up on your little high horse because you thought I wanted to fuck ‘em?” Dean asked, honestly, but there was a tinge of humour to his voice that caused Sam’s face to begin to burn with shame. He said nothing in response. 

Dean chuckled once more, yet another low rumble in his chest, and he tightened his grip on Sam’s shoulders and the younger brother allowed himself to be, gently, pulled back down to the mattress. He turned over, twisting his hips to face Dean, indignant and silent as his brother smoothed a hand down his chest. 

“Sammy… You know me better than that, right?” Dean cooed softly, closer to Sam’s face than he had initially thought. Warm breath on his nose, and Dean still smelled of beer and bar snacks as he leaned in closer. The kiss was gentle, and Sam didn’t say anything. 

“Right?” Dean’s tone wavered, lips close to Sam’s as he smoothed his hand over Sam’s biceps, feeling his way in the dark, running it back up again to tangle easily at the back of his head alongside the damp locks. 

“Yeah, right, Dean.” He replied, unconvincing even to his own ears. It had been said without feeling, he was cold, numb to Dean’s soothing words. He’d heard them before, had felt them broken before and he wouldn’t be so silly this time. There was another long, pregnant silence before Dean pressed himself up against the long lines of Sam’s body.

“I like it when you stare at me Sammy, love it when you look at me like I’m yours baby boy, I’m yours, you know that.” The words had a dirty edge to them, the way Dean was pressed against him, hips grinding against Sam’s. And Sam couldn’t quite dig deep enough, he couldn’t find the will to push Dean away, to continue his, now unfounded, anger. “Just wanted you to stare Sammy, wanted to see how much you want me. To watch you stare daggers at them girls, wanted you to come get me, bring me home baby boy, bring me back to you, y’know?” Dean’s words were breathed heavily against his cheek, and Sam couldn’t do anything but rut back against him, rolling his hips, synchronised and perfect. 

The cotton of Dean’s boxer briefs was chafing the delicate skin of his erection and he let out a soft hiss against his brother’s soft lips. They rubbed against one another, a smooth, fluid motion as their lips met once more, and despite himself Sam felt his anger dissipating. He couldn’t hold a grudge against Dean, no matter what. The hounds of Hell and Heaven’s warriors couldn’t change that.

He would always give in to temptation. 

He would always give in to Dean.

For this? He would always say yes.

Once upon a time, Dean had always tasted of beer. He always reeked of decadence, indulgence, the perfume of booze. Every night he’d crawl into Sam’s bed, the taste of something different on his tongue and every night Sam would roll over and let him take. More recently, it was the bitter taste of sleep that crawled across Dean’s tongue, of coffee, of himself. And he liked this decidedly more; however now it was peanuts and stale beer and all too familiar. He plundered Dean’s mouth, tongue lapping hungrily. If he couldn’t have him all the time, he would make the most of when Dean was his and only his. 

He made the move, pushing gently to roll Dean over, to climb on top and slot himself between familiar, welcoming thighs but was somewhat abruptly stopped. Dean pulled his mouth away gently, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Sam’s mouth and pushed his little brothers hair back off his face tenderly. 

“Not tonight, buddy. I’m driving.” He stated, a light humour evident in his voice. And Dean pushed back and Sam gave in. 

Rolling onto his back with a soft thump, Sam became aware of his heaving chest, the panting breaths that were already coming hard and heavy. Dean was absent for a moment, and once again there was a soft click and light flooded the room. He winced against it, shielding his eyes as Dean began to rummage through his bedside drawer impatiently. Sam settled himself shifting closer to the middle of the bed and opening his legs in a way he hoped was inviting whilst still covering his eyes with a hand.

“Turn it off?” The request was uncertain, unsure and answered only with a small laugh. Dean looked at Sammy, admiring him for a long suffering moment and then clicked out the light. 

“Close your legs, baby boy ‘m going to take care of you.” Sam obeyed, removing the hand from his face and extending it, searching for Dean blindly in the darkness. There was a shuffling noise, and then he was there, Sam’s hand found his thigh and he felt himself relax. Click, and Sam knew this time it was the lube, he'd know that pained, happy sigh anywhere. The sound was slick, wet and Dean’s breathing had hitched, the pattern changing ever so slightly and Sam longed for the light to be switched back on. 

Memory filled the blanks and Sam closed his eyes. It was Dean’s face, flushed and his mouth hanging half open. He was beautiful as always the freckles that dusted his nose, trailed down his chest and covered his back and thighs. He wore the same mess of ugly scars that Sam did but every single one of his was prettier than Sam’s. But now he’d be blissed out, the hitches in his breathing palpable in every fibre of Sam’s being. 

He gripped his cock firmly, sighing with relief he as he continued to cling, gripping Dean’s leg a little harder than perhaps he needed to, as he began to rut up into his fist. It was an easy, lazy motion, a roll of his hips and a twist of his wrist as Dean's breathing punctuated the warm air. The soft, slippery sounds were inciting and Sam let himself sigh and sag back against the mattress. This wasn't so bad, all the anger, the guilt and his burning inadequacies melted away at those noises. He knew it'd be worth it and he couldn't even begin to be mad at Dean for what he'd done, how he'd goaded him. Both of Sam's hands gripped firmly, one digging into the flesh of Sam's thigh and the other fisting tight around his cock. 

Dean hissed out in the dark, not a pleased noise as Sam's nails bit into the well worn skin of his thigh and with his free hand he reached down to the point of pain. Gently he coaxed away Sam's hand, prised away the biting nails and instead slipped his fingers easily between the gaps. He didn't do chick flick, he didn't do romance, but Sammy? Sammy he can definitely do. Taking the hint, Dean pushed their linked fingers down to the bed, grinning into the darkness. His eyes adjusting to the point of just enough; he could just see the outline of Sam's body and he shifted carefully up the bed. 

Sam felt the movement, and he allowed his hand to be pinned back to the bed with no opposition. Dean's weight had shifted and he was balanced a knee either side of Sam's stomach. Lube slick fingers gripped his erection and Sam promptly let go and allowed Dean to touch. They were so familiar, even in the dark Dean knew his body to the hair, he knew the flick of his wrist that Sam loved and the warm, weight that never failed to make him feel like home. And that's what Dean was, Dean was home, so tenuously clung to no matter what. Fleeting and fickle, Dean would always be Sam's home. 


End file.
